


Strange Bedfellows

by jellybeanforest



Series: Star Wars: Stony Edition [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars, Bickering, Bottom Steve Rogers, Enemies to Lovers, Found Family, Insubordinate Steve Rogers, Jedi Steve Rogers, M/M, Mandalorian Tony Stark, Marvel Reverse Big Bang, Must Not Die A Virgin, On the Run, Orphan Steve Rogers, Sworn enemies, Virgin Steve Rogers, We're Gonna Die Sex, steve has anger issues, which is less than ideal for a padawan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Padawan Steve Rogers goes on the run when the Galactic Republic issues Order 66 declaring all Jedi traitors to the Republic and automatically subject to summary execution. When he is cornered and outnumbered, he thinks it is the end, but then a Mandalorian, mercenary and natural enemy of the Jedi, comes to his rescue.For the Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020.
Relationships: Abraham Erskine & Steve Rogers, Chester Phillips & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Star Wars: Stony Edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189160
Comments: 25
Kudos: 70
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jayjayverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayjayverse/gifts).



> This is inspired by jayjayverse's wonderful Marvel Reverse Big Bang entry located here:  
> https://jellybeanforest-a-go-go.tumblr.com/post/643335511747051520/art-contribution-for-the-marvel-rbb-2020-strange
> 
> In Star Wars lore, the Mandalorians developed technological innovations to fight against the Jedi, whose force-abilities they didn’t understand. Unfortunately, the Mandalorian-Jedi War scorched Mandalore, rendering it uninhabitable save for a few domed cities, and the Mandalorians have had a grudge against the Jedi ever since. 
> 
> The New Mandalorian Government, a pacifist regime, then took over, exiling their warriors who refused to give up their ways to their moon, Concordia. They were then taken over by the Sith under Darth Maul, sparking the Mandalorian Civil War. The Galactic Republic sided with the rebels to expel the Sith, but as they were taking Darth Maul back to the Republic, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine (secretly Darth Sidious) activates Order 66 towards the end of the Clone Wars, forcing the clone army to turn against and kill their Jedi leaders. Palpatine then declares himself Emperor and restores the Sith Empire, transforming the Galactic Republic into the Galactic Empire and continuing to hunt down any remaining Jedi. The Galactic Empire takes over and occupies Mandalore shortly after.
> 
> Chapter 1 is a prologue, and at the beginning of Chapter 2, the Galactic Republic has just freed Mandalore, and four Jedi Masters have confronted Supreme Chancellor Palpatine. With the help of Anakin Skywalker, Palpatine kills the Jedi Masters and triggers Order 66. 
> 
> Prompt from the artist: Steve has been on the run after Order 66, he has tried to go unnoticed, but he is caught and outnumbered. Things look bad, and when he thinks he’s defeated, a Mandalorian comes to his rescue.
> 
> And finally, a big thank you to Call_Me_Kayyyyy for the beta!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On an excursion to Pax, Master Erskine and Master Phillips stumble across a force-sensitive child. Master Phillips thinks the boy too angry to be trained in the ways of the Jedi.
> 
> On the balance, Master Erskine disagrees.

“I’ll give you sixty cred for the lot,” Master Phillips haggles with the essential mineral merchant. Minerals are one of Pax’s few exports, its mudflats rich with kaolinite and bentonite for pottery as well as magnesium and potassium for the body among other things necessary for the Initiates of the Jedi Academy he ran.

The man takes one look at his customer’s clothing, the clean white overtunic and brown cloak made of heavy wool, and plugs “100” into his rudimentary calculator, flipping it over to show the Jedi Master his counter-offer.

The price is certainly highway robbery, but the merchant’s calculator is dusty and cracked, at least thirty years out of date with some of the buttons barely functional. There’s a gaggle of children – he’s not sure if they’re the merchant’s own or his employees – staring up at him from under the table, where they have taken to crafting animals out of the clay mud sourced from the very ground they sit upon.

Master Erskine grumbles, but he holds up his hands. “Eighty” he holds up eight fingers; “five” he switches to five. “Final offer.”

After the money and product have changed hands, and he’s walking away, his companion Master Erskine informs him, “You could have talked him down to sixty-five.”

Probably, but “I think the time it would have taken to get him lower is worth the twenty cred.”

“I’m sure. Twenty credits also mean a lot for the locals.”

Master Erskine is always doing this, reading too much into every little interaction and assigning meaning where there is none. It’s one of his more annoying traits.

“I wasn’t aware you had been appointed the Academy treasurer.”

“I am simply–” Master Erskine stops, his head turned to peer down a side street. “Do you feel that?”

Master Phillips had. A strong pull, a hook, a tantalizing itch in his subconscious screams at him. There is a source radiating raw Force energy nearby, beckoning him closer.

Master Erskine gravitates towards it, leaving Master Phillips no choice but to follow.

Its source turns out to be a small youngling, a boy of approximately six. Short and nearly skin and bones, he doesn’t stand a chance against the larger child he is pitted against. Still, he holds his arms up in an untrained attack formation.

“What are you going to do about it, Rogers? Hit me?” the other boy challenges.

The child – Rogers – hits him alright. His form is weak and his fist inexpert, not enough to do any proper damage on its own, but the Force behind it packs a wallop, causing his opponent to practically fly across the street and land unceremoniously on his back, wheezing and winded.

“Steven!” a young woman calls out as she stamps over and boxes the child’s ear.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” he complains, leaning into her hold to relieve the pressure.

“What did I tell you about fighting?”

“Brock started it!”

But the boy had finished it out of anger, whether natural or from a deep-seated rage at his circumstances. Master Phillips isn’t sure which, but he has seen enough. “We about done here?” he asks Master Erskine.

Master Erskine doesn’t move. “You go on ahead; I’ll catch up at port.”

Master Phillips knows what that portends. “He doesn’t have the temperament,” he says, pointing out the obvious.

But his companion is stubborn. “I’d like to talk with him first, screen him further.”

“You and I both saw what he did.”

“There is no harm in a second look.”

Master Phillips mulls it over. “Okay fine. Satisfy your curiosity and move on.” Master Erskine will see that the boy is mentally unfit to be a Jedi Initiate despite his obvious aptitude, and that will be the end of it.

“I will see you at port,” Master Erskine repeats, heading into what turns out to be the Brookland Home for Boys.

* * *

After a short conversation with the director of the group home during which he had expressed interest in adopting the troublesome child, Master Erskine sits down for a meet and greet with the prospective pupil. The boy sits across from him, still out of sorts and a touch surly, rubbing at his reddened ear. He looks resigned, as if he knows he will not be selected for adoption but is still required to go through the motions.

Master Erskine had reviewed the file of one Steven Rogers. Orphaned at age four, he had been fostered out to a series of homes before landing in the group home ten months prior. Since then, he had been involved in a series of unexplained incidents and subsequently racked up a long list of demerits. The director of the establishment seems eager to be rid of him and is even willing to waive the customary waiting period and adoption fee, though he had heavily hinted that a donation in exchange for a speedy process would not be remiss.

It’s a convenient, if concerning, declaration, with the underlying insinuation that the boy wouldn’t be tracked or missed should he disappear onto an outgoing ship.

And so, Master Erskine appraises the child, noting his sickly countenance and sunken cheeks as well as the sharp shoulders sticking out from under his scratchy burlap shift. Steven fidgets under the attention, until Master Erskine finally breaks the ice. “I saw you earlier… outside. Why did you attack your friend?” he inquires bluntly, getting straight to the point.

“He’s not my friend,” Steven mumbles, not quite looking at the man.

Master Erskine hums, leaning forward, observing the boy with a critical eye. “He is so much bigger than you. You must have known you couldn’t win.”

“Is this a test?” Steven tips his head to the left, as if trying to figure out Master Erskine’s game. “If I pass, will you be my new father?”

“No,” Master Erskine replies, having chosen to answer only his second inquiry. Steven is visibly disappointed. “I am a Jedi. My name is Master Erskine.”

Steven looks at his feet. “Figures. Brock says I’m too old for a family. He says they’ll sell me for spare parts if I don’t get big enough to leave on my own.”

“Is that why you wanted to hurt him? Because he upset you?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. Brock’s a bully. He was picking on the new kid whose mom just died of sweating sickness. Said it was syphilis on account of her being a… um… an H – O – R,” he whispers, demonstrating both his knowledge of social niceties as well as his impressive grasp of letters. “Pinky’s littler than the rest of us, and Brock was mean to him for no reason. He made him cry,” Steven says, stating bluntly, “I don’t like bullies.”

Master Erskine nods. Fair enough.

“Steven.”

The boy looks up.

“Would you like to see the stars?”

* * *

Master Phillips is waiting at port, having already packed up all their purchased supplies, by the time Master Erskine arrives, the child he had already deemed psychologically unfit to be a Jedi in tow.

“What do you think you’re doing, Master Erskine?” Master Phillips balks, scowling at the man, refusing to so much as acknowledge his new charge.

“Master Phillips, this is Steven Rogers. He will be accompanying us back to the Academy,” Master Erskine says, as if that is in any way a reasonable course of action. He addresses the boy, “Steven, this is Master Phillips; he’s the headmaster of the Jedi Academy I was telling you about.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” but he doesn’t sound sincere to Master Phillips’s ear.

Master Erskine smiles down at Steve gently then pats him on his upper back to subtly push him forward. “Go on. Up into the ship with you, alright? I need to talk to Master Phillips.”

To his credit, Master Phillips waits until the kid is inside the ship and mostly out of earshot before asking Master Erskine, “You’re not really thinking about training the kid, are you?”

“I am more than just thinking about it. I have already offered to take him in as a Jedi Initiate,” Master Erskine states, his tone still frustratingly calm and even, further raising Master Phillips’s hackles. “The Force is strong with this one.”

“He’s trouble.”

“He’s talented.”

“He’s too angry; we both saw it.”

“He will learn emotional discipline.”

Master Phillips massages his temple as if to stave off a headache. “Right. And what about his size?”

“What of it? He is taller than Master Yoda,” Master Erskine replies, being deliberately obtuse.

It is not the same thing at all.

“Master Yoda’s people are compact but powerful. For his species, that kid is undersized at best, and you want to enroll him in _my_ Academy. You think he’ll survive the Crystal Cave of Ilum? Hell, you hand him a ready-made lightsaber, and he’s going to tip over.” Master Phillips looks back at Steve, skinny and underfed, strapped into his seat with his feet swinging underneath. “Look at that. He’s making me cry.”

“He will grow.”

Master Phillips gives up. He cannot win, not against a man so seemingly reasonable yet surprisingly stubborn. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Master Erskine.”

* * *

The Jedi Academy is not so different from the Brookland Home for Boys or so Steve comes to believe. Sure, the rooms are nicer, the food and clothing leagues better than where he had come from, but there is something of a pecking order amongst the younglings within extant clans, and being a new Initiate (and a physically unassuming and undertrained one at that), he lands somewhere near the bottom upon arrival.

“We must be scrapping the bottom of the barrel if we’re accepting the likes of you.” Hodge, the star pupil of the Savrip Clan and son of a Senator, had taken one look at Steve in his grubby shift and lack of proper belongings and decided his (lack of) worth. He had even pushed Steve’s cot closer to the latrines, declaring he smelled like he belonged there.

He had wrinkled his nose around Steve even after he had washed up and was newly fitted with a uniform supplied by the Academy. “Ugh,” he had stage-whispered to another boy during their recreational hour in the open-air courtyard. “You can’t wash off the smell of failure. It just seeps out of him.”

Steve had done what he always did when confronted with a bully and punched him square on the nose, but Hodge didn’t go down as easily as Brock. He retaliated, laying Steve flat in the dirt with a well-executed kata. That had led to a scuffle Steve couldn’t hope to win, but then again, he never knew when to quit.

So, Steve didn’t fit in with the other pupils, but it also didn’t help that Master Phillips himself didn’t seem to like him all that much either.

When Master Phillips had entered the scene, Hodge had retreated to stand at attention, his back straight and shoulders square over his hips, leaving Steve on the ground. Master Phillips breathes in deep, exhaling just as slowly. “Rogers, I know you may be used to playing in the mud but get your ass up out of that dirt and stand at attention,” he orders, sounding utterly disappointed.

Steve looks murderous, but he imitates Hodge, standing at attention as directed. Still, he can’t help but scowl instead of adopting the older boy’s more neutral expression. He can practically feel the waves of self-satisfaction radiating off Hodge, and he bristles at the notion that the boy might have gotten away with testing Steve.

But Master Phillips is not done. “And Hodge?” he says, stopping in front of the other Jedi Initiate. “I expected better from you. Rogers may be a mouthy pain in the ass, but I expect you to approach the situation calmly and accurately evaluate his threat level as minimal. After all, a Jedi would not use a lightsaber against a porg, son.”

Steve fumes. _A porg?_

“Yes, Master Phillips,” Hodge replies.

“You will both report to me tomorrow morning at 0500 hours for extra meditation and forms. Do not be late.”

Hodge waits for Master Phillips to leave. “Nice job, Rogers. You got us both detention,” he complains, elbowing Steve who subsequently rounds on him.

“ _You_ said bad things about _me_.”

“I was only pointing out the obvious. Look at you. You have to know what you look like, what you are. You’re going to fail out of the Order after the Initiate Trials anyway. I don’t know why they even bothered admitting you.”

Another boy with long brown hair done up in a messy bun walks up to the duo to stand between them, snapping, “Oh shut up, Hodge. I heard you’re only here ‘cause your Dad donated a dormitory wing to the Academy.”

“Stay out of this, Barnes.”

But Barnes doesn’t stand down. “You’re just jealous Rogers didn’t have to bribe nobody for his spot. They just accepted him, no questions asked. You think you know better than the masters?”

“I have eyes.”

“And the force-sensitivity of a gnat. You can’t even feel it, can you? Why they picked him?”

The accusation must hit close to home, because Hodge turns tail with an exasperated “I don’t have time for this” and leaves.

Bucky watches him go before turning to Steve and sticking out his hand. “The name’s Bucky.”

Steve is wary but accepts. “Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

“Welcome to the Academy. You’ve already met the biggest butthead here,” Bucky says, his grin widening. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You want to meet the others? Promise most of us don’t bite.”

It could be a trick. Bucky could be another bully, swooping in when Steve’s guard is down to uncertain ends, but then again, he did stick up for him. He didn’t need to do that, and Steve can’t yet surmise what possible scam Bucky might be angling for, and so he tentatively agrees, “…Okay.”

It takes a while for Steve to adapt, but with Bucky vouching for him, the other boys eventually warm up to Steve, including him in their games and studies. He becomes a little less isolated, a little less lonely, and even though he never truly overcomes his confrontational nature when pressed, he gets better at suppressing it. In time, he even passes the Jedi Initiate Trials and is quickly chosen by Master Erskine as his padawan.

“Safe travels, Bucky,” Steve says on the day of their parting. He grants him a small wave.

Bucky gives him a hug in response, holding on for longer than necessary before he pulls away, patting and squeezing both shoulders of his long-time friend. “We’ll meet again, hopefully before the next trials.”

“We’ll be knights then and free to travel where we may.” Perhaps even together for a spell, before they are required to take on their own padawans.

“Until then… I’ll be seeing you, Stevie, and may the Force be with you.”

“And also with you.”

It will be ten years, give or take. Ten years under Master Erskine’s tutelage. Steve will learn the ways of the Jedi, become a knight in his own right, and be a part of something bigger than himself, something good.

Maybe then, Steve will find peace and a sense of belonging.


	2. An Unlikely Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after leaving the Jedi Academy, Padawan Steve Rogers finds himself separated from his master and cornered by Storm Troopers, only to be rescued by an unlikely ally.

His master is being intractable, completely unreasonable.

“You will be ready when I say you are, and not a day sooner.”

Tatooine will sooner flood and freeze over than Master Phillips agree that Steve is ready. After all, he had never taken to the (not-so-)young padawan. From the very first day Master Erskine and he had picked him up from Pax at the ripe age of six, Master Phillips had deemed him unworthy of the robe and saber of a true Jedi. Steve isn’t entirely sure why he took him in as his padawan after Master Erskine’s death, but he thought it likely that the old bastard did it in order to hold Steve back, to keep him from so much as attempting the Jedi Trials and becoming a knight in his own right. 

It isn’t fair.

“Your anger is precisely why you are not ready, young padawan,” Master Erskine elaborates, despite the lack of verbal complaint from his student.

“I am not ang–” but Steve thinks better of the lie, amending it to the more truthful: “I am simply disappointed. I should have been eligible six months past, and yet, here I remain.” Master Erskine thought him prepared too, but that was before his untimely death, before Steve ran down and crushed his former master’s assassin in what Master Phillips clearly thought of as emotionally-driven overkill.

“You should stop taking everything so personally.”

“Master Erskine–”

“Master Erskine has transcended this life and returned to the Force. That is my fate, as it is yours and the fate of everything living,” Master Phillips interjects. “But in the meantime, have patience.”

Even before they had stepped out into the oppressive humidity of the morning to traverse the stone path stretching from their sleeping quarters to the official Republic outpost in this backwater planet with a trusted clone escort in tow, Master Phillips had been more irritable than usual. Something had been troubling the man for the past several months, and the cloud that hung over him had darkened in recent days. Steve had a sneaking suspicion it was annoyance at his padawan’s growing restlessness, built to a fever pitch in the same interval.

Because Steve is tired of waiting, his patience having worn threadbare under Master Phillips’s frustrating inertia. “But when?”

“When you can put aside your anger and truly forswear all mortal attachments, when you can let go of everything you fear to lose… only then will you be ready.”

So, that will be never, according to Master Phillips.

It is not the first time Steve misses Master Erskine. Master Erskine had been kind and (in retrospect) patient with Steve. He had believed in Steve’s potential and encouraged his growth and mental discipline over the years, ever since Steve had passed the Initiate Trials and was promptly selected by Master Erskine as his padawan.

In contrast, nothing he did to improve ever seemed to matter to Master Phillips. Master Phillips remembered him as a troubled boy, from before he had managed to develop emotional resilience and restraint, when he was still struggling to fit in with the other Jedi Initiates and had gotten into more than one scrap. Master Phillips had had to discipline him multiple times during his stint at the Academy and must have been sorely tempted to expel him at least once. But that had been over ten years ago. In the interim, Steve had flourished under Master Erskine as his padawan. He had done his best to practice meditation and squash any remaining attachments, to accept things as they are and have compassion for all living beings equally. The incident with Master Erskine’s assassin… that had been a mistake, and he could own it as such. There is a process to these things, and Steve had failed to remain level-headed in an emotionally-fraught situation. It was a blunder that is unlikely to reoccur, especially with Master Phillips as his new mentor. Steve will be calm, the perfect padawan, and if someone happened to murder Master Phillips right this very second, he will even restrain himself from extreme retaliation.

It’s what his current master would have wanted.

“Is that what you did before you became a Knight?” Steve inquires, his tone waspish and bordering on disrespectful.

“It is the way of the Jedi,” Master Phillips replies, confirming Steve’s supposition.

Ah yes, Master Phillips: the face of an Ugnaught and the heart of an insect. Steve is about to imply as much when Phillips suddenly grabs Steve’s robes, jerking him down as he ducks himself, twin plasma blasts scorching the pillar in front of them where their heads had been.

Immediately, they turn, each fluidly drawing his lightsaber as they face not an unknown enemy but the very escort meant to fight alongside them. They parry and advance, deflecting blaster fire as Steve deftly circles behind Master Phillips to meet the clones coming from their original destination, all intent on their destruction.

There is something wrong with them, with each clone having been compromised at exactly the same moment to turn on Steve and Master Phillips.

“Any ideas?” Steve calls out to the only ally at his back.

“Yeah,” Master Phillips shouts as he counters a barrage of blaster fire, retreating off the path. “Survive.”

With Master Phillips’s back to the trees, Steve parries a clone then flips over him to slice through the first before taking out the next three closest clones. There are too many and more coming, so the two Jedi draw closer together, backing up towards the jungle behind them. “Care to elaborate?”

“They would have sabotaged our ship in the hangar, obviously.” Master Phillips cuts down another two and telekinetically throws a third into a stone column.

“Obviously,” Steve repeats, hooking his arm around a clone to swing and take him down while sweeping another one off his feet and stabbing him through. He rolls onto his feet back into a fighting stance, his lightsaber drawn as he arcs it in a figure-8 to block more enemy fire.

“But if we can make it into the forest, then maybe – Watch out!” Master Phillips sends a rock flying ahead of Steve which bursts a foot from his back, deflecting a direct hit with enemy fire. He then cries out, having been hit himself in the thigh. Steve returns to his master’s side, slicing through the man who had fired on him and beating back additional forces.

Master Phillips grabs him by the elbow. “Run!” he hisses.

“But your leg–”

“I’ll be fine, but you need to go.” Though Master Phillips is hobbled, he continues to fight, his lightsaber striking left and right and his open palm tossing mid-sized boulders at their enemies when he manages an opening. “What are you waiting for, son? Run!”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Steve insists, stubborn to the end.

Master Phillips positions himself in front of Steve, trying to give him cover for escape. “You must!”

“But–”

“You think this is a mistake?” he shouts back, suddenly angry. “A malfunction? We lost, and they’re trying to take us all out! So for once in your sorry life, do as you’re told and run!” There are more clones spilling out of the Galactic Republic outpost, enough to overrun the two Jedi. Master Phillips practically tears up the path, lifting the stones up and sending them flying in a matrix of projectiles to thin out the herd of white helmets. “Survive! That is a direct order from your master!”

So Steve runs. He disappears into the treeline, leaping over root and under branches, cutting a zig-zag path through the underbrush. He wipes his blurry eyes on his sleeve to clear up his vision, never pausing in his retreat.

He does not see Master Phillips fall, but fall he must because the padawan is not alone for long.

He hears them: the crack of snapping vegetation, the heavy step of metal boots, their identical shouts and high pitched whine of their weapons as they spread out and pepper the underbrush with blaster fire. Some even travel ahead, skirting the edges before doubling back, trying to surround Steve in a net of personnel.

He can’t outrun them.

And so he takes to the trees, taking out clone foot soldiers individually and in small group using guerilla tactics when he can and hiding when he can’t. He dodges detection, trying to find a way out, but still the net tightens, constricting his options until he is cornered and forced out into a clearing, surrounded by clone soldiers.

It is his last stand.

He draws his lightsaber, activating the crystal beam, prepared to take out as many of them as he can before his inevitable death. He would like to say he is at peace with his fate, but that would be a lie. Truth is, he is angry that it has come to this. It is the end, the very hour of his death, and ultimately, he couldn’t save anyone, not Master Erskine nor Master Phillips.

What is the point of it all if he was always going to end up here, having accomplished nothing?

Suddenly, he hears a light roar. He sees his opponents look up, just as the first five are gunned down from above. His gaze is similarly drawn upward, until he spies the source: A Mandalorian, wearing red and gold armor drops into the fray, his blasters blazing and beskar acting as a shield against any return fire. Steve snaps out of his shock as he joins his unlikely ally, cutting down any in his path, until both he and the Mandalorian are fighting back to back. They circle around, firing and slicing through opponents until only they remain.

As silence falls in the clearing, Steve turns on the Mandalorian, his saber still raised in battle mode. Steve is no fool. He knows their history, the long drawn-out war between Jedi and Mandalorians that left the latter’s planet hostile and uninhabitable save a few domed cities. There is no love lost between their kind; no way a mercenary – a Mandalorian at that – would rescue a lone Jedi.

There is really only one explanation for the Mandalorian’s behavior.

“If you are here to collect my head, then you won’t find me an easy target,” Steve proclaims, not dropping his guard. Clearly, the Mandalorian only meant to eliminate the competition, so he can collect his bounty in relative peace.

Steve is not going down so easily, and now that the number of his opponents is down to one, he estimates he has at least an even chance of survival.

But the Mandalorian only holsters his blaster. “That’s not my mission. I wasn’t hired to take you out.”

Steve doesn’t drop his weapon. “You are a Mandalorian, a bounty hunter. How stupid do you think I am?”

“Oh, I’d say pretty stupid,” the Mandalorian says, taking a step forward, stopping just outside lightsaber range. “Relax; if I had wanted you dead, you’d be on the ground with the others. I was hired six months ago by your master to protect you should the worst happen, to ferry you to the planet Tython where you could be safe, hidden with a small enclave of your kind.”

“Why should I trust you? The Mandalorians are sworn enemies of the Jedi.”

“The Jedi have no shortage of enemies these days. You should be grateful to have an ally. Any ally,” The Mandalorian crosses his arms, his hands nowhere near his blaster. “Plus, your master paid in advance.”

Steve thinks of Master Erskine with his kind eyes and soft voice. A weight forms in Steve’s belly, and he swallows around the lump in his throat. “My master is dead.”

The Mandalorian nods. “That may be so, but it does not change anything. I took his money and gave him my word to see this mission through, and you should know a Mandalorian’s word is his bond.”

Steve retracts his lightsaber, but it remains in hand. “How… how did he know what was going to happen?”

“You Jedi… aren’t you clairvoyant?” The Mandalorian asks before simply shrugging at Steve’s silence. “He said there was something wrong, a rot in the Republic they were trying to identify and root out. He worried that if they failed, there would be repercussions for the Jedi.” He looks down at the pile of dead clone soldiers. “Seems he was right.” He holds out his hand for a shake. “The name’s Stark, by the way. Tony Stark.”

Steve obliges. “Steve.”

“So, not that I don’t love a good fight, but you want to maybe get out of here before the cavalry arrives?” he offers, tipping his head south. “My ship is a couple klicks that way. I can have you off planet and on Tython in a matter of days.”

Steve would like to go back for Master Phillips just in case… in case what exactly? He knows he has passed in all likelihood, and his late master would be pissed if Steve risked his life for a corpse.

“Lead the way.”


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stark proves to be an utterly annoying and challenging (but enlightening) travel companion.

**Eleven Years Prior**

The morning light is grey, the air heavy with dew that settles on the stones of the courtyard, making them slippery. But it is no matter to the lone figures standing in its center: an instructor and a Jedi Initiate six months shy of undergoing the first round of trials. The instructor taps the boy’s knee with his staff, nudging it an inch over into the correct position.

“You are distracted,” Master Phillips tells him. His tone, though gruff, lacks its usual edge of reprimand and disappointment. Perhaps it is resignation – he had been training Steve for seven years now and still the boy managed to earn the odd detention here and there – or maybe it is pity.

Steve holds his new position. “Why do you say that?”

“Your form is sloppy, even for you.”

Bucky had fallen ill with a pox and had been secluded from the others for days now. Occasionally, the pox had swept through the Brookland Home for Boys and taken one in twenty as well as deafened an additional two. So, realistically, the odds were good for Bucky to pull through unharmed but still too low for Steve’s comfort.

“You are worried for your friend, the Barnes boy. You are afraid you will lose him,” Master Phillips says, and for a minute, Steve thinks maybe he understands, but then he continues, “You should not. The fear of loss is a path to the dark side. Attachment – the desire to hold onto something – can lead you to take more extreme measures to keep it. You must let go of these desires, accept that all things pass away eventually.”

“…Bucky is thirteen.”

Master Phillips taps down on Steve’s shoulders, making him crouch all that much deeper. “Jedi forswear all attachments.”

Later that night, when Steve tosses and turns in bed, unable to settle, he sits up to survey the room and notes the other Initiates are already asleep, including Gabe who had switched beds with him the prior week. Softly, almost tentatively, he knocks on wall behind him in intergalactic standard code: B-U-C-K-Y / A-W-A-K-E-? / I-T-S / S-T-E-V-E

There’s a responding knock: Y-E-S

H-O-W / A-R-E / Y-O-U / T-O-D-A-Y-? / B-E-T-T-E-R-? Steve carefully taps out.

G-E-T-T-I-N-G / T-H-E-R-E, then a pause, D-U-M / D-U-M / S-A-Y-S / Y-O-U / G-O-T / D-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-N / A-G-A-I-N

P-H-I-L-L-I-P-S / H-A-R-D-A-S-S

Suddenly, there’s another set of knocks from an adjacent wall, from the hallway where the instructors regularly patrolled. G-O / T-O / S-L-E-E-P / D-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-N / R-O-G-E-R-S

_Damn it._

Though much too late to fool anyone, Steve quickly plops back into his bed, rolls on his side away from the door, and pulls the covers up to his neck, feigning sleep.

* * *

**Present Day**

The ship in front of them, surrounded by discarded palm fronds, is in no way space-worthy. With the reinforced metal siding removed, the internal shielding is exposed to the elements. Even the door appears to be missing, with what appears to be the contents of the ship spilled out on the ground outside and picked over by scavengers.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” The Mandalorian – Stark – shouts as he hurries the last few yards to his ship. He picks up some debris outside, rushing in where there are further shouts of disbelief and rage as he releases an impressive bevy of curses, only half of which Steve is familiar.

He pops his head out of the ship’s open side door, pointing at Steve. “You! You are reimbursing me for this!”

“What? Why?” It’s not Steve’s fault Stark didn’t secure his ship properly, and besides, he is simply a padawan, an unpaid apprentice. He didn’t have the funds for this.

He says as much only for Stark to grumble about how much trouble Steve has already proven to be and how it is possible that he might even lose money on this mission. He should have asked for more up front.

Steve would offer to have the Jedi High Council reimburse Stark, but he’s not too sure how widespread the events of today are. Master Erskine had worried that there had been a snake in the Republic, possibly reaching high enough places to order him assassinated with Master Phillips marked for death next. Who’s to say other masters haven’t similarly been targeted at the same time? So instead he says, “I’ll get you your money, even if I have to pay it myself when I get my Knight’s commission.”

“You’re not even a real Jedi yet?”

Steve bristles. “I have finished my training, and I was just about to undergo the final Jedi trials.” It’s not strictly the truth but close enough. Master Erskine had thought him prepared, even if Master Phillips had not.

Stark simply sighs, pulls up a hidden hatch in the floor, and takes out an emergency radio.

He punches in a frequency from memory. “Rhodey? Rhodey, come in. It’s Tony.”

“Tones?” is the tentative reply.

“Scavengers got my ship. I’m about a three-day walk from your location. You think I could get a tow and some parts to fix her up?”

There’s an ominous pause, long enough for Stark to prompt: “Talk to me, Rhodey.”

“No can do, buddy. I’m sorry.”

“What? You’re going to make me walk in this heat? I’ll boil.”

“If you hang tight, maybe I can swing by in a couple days, but it’s crazy here, man. You know that Supreme Chancellor Palpatine guy?”

“Yeah?”

“The Jedi High Council tried to stage a coup to depose him. They failed, but the Chancellor has declared the entire Order traitors to the Republic. They’re slaughtering them all across the galaxy. Summary execution by their clone subordinates.”

Stark is in disbelief. “All of them?”

“Yeah, man. Just… I don’t know. They’re hunting them all down.”

He waits a beat, looking back at Steve, whose hand has wandered near his belt, close to his lightsaber. “What about the apprentices? The ones that haven’t made it into the Order yet.”

“All of them. They’re even rounding up the younglings. Nearly everyone with so-called Force sensitivity.”

Facing Steve with Stark’s hand moving towards his blaster, he signs off. “Thanks, Rhodey. I’ll take that tow when you can get it out to me. I’ll send you the coordinates later, okay?”

“Stay safe, Tones.”

He puts down the radio receiver. “Okay Steve, I know that sounds bad, but I already told you I’m not turning you in. We’re still going to Tython. Mandalorian, remember? Word is my bond.”

“I want to use the radio,” Steve states evenly, his hand not retreating from his lightsaber. “I need to check in with someone.”

“Are you nuts? Didn’t you hear Rhodey? They’re looking for you, all of you.”

“I have a friend, a fellow padawan who recently became a knight. We call each other on occasion. It’s a secure channel. I just want to make sure he’s okay, that he made it.”

Stark doesn’t hand over the radio, nudging it behind him. “If they find us, they’ll kill us both.”

“I need to know,” Steve insists. “If it was Rhodey, wouldn’t you want to know?”

Stark is still for a long moment. Steve is uncertain whether he’s mulling it over or just mulishly standing his ground – it’s so hard to tell when all he can see is an impassive mask – but his plea must work because the Mandalorian steps aside.

“You have two minutes.”

Steve grabs the receiver, switching to channel SR107BB, where a message is already transmitting in intergalactic standard, the same word over and over.

S-T-E-V-E / S-T-E-V-E / S-T-E-V-E

Steve replies: B-U-C-K-Y-?

S-A-F-E, a pause, Y-O-U-?

S-A-F-E / P-H-I-L-L-I-P-S / G-O-N-E

Another pause, then: S-O-R-R-Y and W-H-E-R-E / A-R-E / Y-O-U-?

“Don’t answer that,” Stark says, pressing the power button to cut off the transmission. “You think you and your friend are the only ones that know intergalactic standard? That could be anyone on the other side.”

He’s right. Damn him, but he’s right.

Steve has a sinking feeling in his gut. What if Bucky hadn’t made it; what if he’s talking to his murderer right now? He can’t betray their location, especially with the ship out of commission. They’re sitting ducks. If it was Steve alone, he’d risk it, but with Stark stuck here as well…

“I know what I’m doing,” he says as Stark takes his finger off the button.

He switches the radio back on. S-A-F-E / P-L-A-C-E, a pause, T-E-L-L / Y-O-U / T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W / H-O-P-E / O-K / N-O-W

With that, he signs off. Stark is silent, his arms crossed as he leans a hip against the side counter that once served as an on-board all-purpose workspace. “You think I didn’t catch that?”

“I didn’t tell him where we are.”

“No, but you told him where we are going. ‘Safe Place’ and then spelling out T.Y.T.H.O.N.? What were you thinking?”

Steve can’t deny it – that would be insulting the Mandalorian’s intelligence – so he says instead: “Was it that obvious?”

“To the average clone? Probably not,” he admits. “I’m still not dawdling on Tython to find out. I said I’d deliver you to the planet – that was the deal, and I’m sticking to it – but you’re on your own once we touch down, got it?”

“Understood.”

“Okay, just so we’re clear,” he turns to a side cabinet, opening it to find it disappointingly empty. “We’re here a couple days until Rhodey can tow us out, and then a couple more days so I can repair the damage and restock.” He looks over his shoulder, “I’m going to take stock of what is left of my ship and what parts I need so I can relay the information to Rhodey. Why don’t you make yourself useful and find a water source, maybe forage some berries or whatever you learned to do at Jedi scouts–”

“Academy,” Steve corrects him.

Stark just waves off his interruption. “They did teach you how to survive in a jungle with your lightsaber and a pocket knife, didn’t they?”

“We learned basic survival techniques.”

“Great. Well, now is the time to put those to use. Use your Jedi powers or whatever to find us a water supply.”

* * *

That night, after Steve had found a water source and foraged for a miniscule amount of food he knows to be edible (some nuts and fruit that have already been bitten into and half-eaten by various bird species), they hunker down inside the ruins of the Mandalorian’s ship, draping a tarp over the entrance to keep out the cold and any nocturnal predators.

There’s nothing to do but talk. However, even knowing the reason is likely boredom, Steve finds the Mandalorian to be particularly chatty.

“Okay, here’s what I never understood about the Jedi. You live your whole lives from the age of three on up always training and studying to be these super-charged knights only to never get laid,” Stark is prattling on. “How does that make any sense? You could be sex symbols across the galaxy instead of the eunuchs you are.”

“We– we’re not...” Steve blusters, settling on, “I’m still intact.”

“Fat lot of good it does you. Have you ever actually tried–”

“No.”

“And you’re not even curious about what you’re missing?” Stark presses.

Steve simply stares at him. “And what about you? A Mandalorian cannot remove his helmet in the presence of others. Isn’t it uncomfortable? Doesn’t it get hot in there?” This planet is tropical. Even Steve finds the environment sweltering in his Jedi robes, and yet the Mandalorian’s armor remains.

“I’d rather wear this armor than miss out on sex.”

“Still, you have to admit, it’s inconvenient for seemingly no reason. I don’t see how that’s any different than what the Order demands,” he reasons. “Except the Jedi have a reason to abstain.” No families, no attachments to distract from the meditative life and pure purpose of the Jedi, or at least that’s what the masters have always told them.

Stark is quiet at that. Steve thinks he’s won (with his prize being blessed silence), but the man again opens his mouth. “…It is the price of being a warrior. The others, the ones left on Mandalore… it’s different for them. They gave up the old ways of our people, but they’re vulnerable without the beskar. Threw us all out – all their warriors – exiled us to Concordia when we refused to give it up. It made Mandalore weak, weak enough to be invaded and occupied.”

“Mandalore has been taken over?”

“By the Sith. The Republic… the Jedi, they fought alongside us and helped free Mandalore recently, restored our government,” Stark clarifies. “That’s part of the reason I took this job. The Jedi helped Mandalore, and so when one of them asked for a boon in return…” – another pause – “The pay wasn’t too bad either, but it isn’t the main reason. I don’t know the details of what’s going on with the Jedi Order or the Republic right now, but I have a mission, which is to deliver you to Tython, and I won’t fail.”

“…I think it’s time we get some rest,” Steve suggests.

Stark stands then stretches to loosen his muscles. “You sleep first. I’ll stand watch.”

* * *

It’s going to be at least a week before Rhodey can tow their ship. In the aftermath of Order 66, the Galactic Republic has restricted citizen movement and commandeered ships to ferry supplies and clone soldiers between outposts as they hunt down and weed out the Jedi threat. Steve had felt it before, the dread heavy like an ache in his gut, from the moment he and Master Phillips had been attacked, but he had attributed the bereft feeling to adrenaline and then to Master Phillips’s passing. The ache had ebbed and flowed but when it failed to abate even days later, he finally identifies the source: it is the feeling of Jedi falling one by one across the galaxy.

He knows he isn’t the only one left, but he can feel their numbers dwindling in the emptiness that follows as each light flickers then blinks out of existence.

Perhaps if present company had been more pleasant, Steve would have been less on edge.

Stark prods him again, poking him in the side with a stick as he sat by the makeshift fire, trying to relax.

Steve grabs the stick when it goes in for a third jab. “Quit doing that. I won’t tell you again,” he says through grit teeth.

“Still nothing?” Stark says, his gleaming helmet leaning in to observe Steve.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I’m just curious is all,” he replies. “I’ve heard that Jedi are able to move things with their mind. Telekinesis. My hypothesis is that it’s a load of bullshit, just something that got exaggerated, like when they say vornskr can shoot fire from their mouths when their breath is just hot and their sting deadly enough that no man has survived it. Maybe someone saw a Jedi throw a moderately-sized rock one day and then it became a boulder in the retelling and later still, it was said to have been thrown using telekinesis. That sort of thing.”

_This again?_

“No, it’s a real thing. We use the Force.”

Stark snorts in disbelief. “The Force is just a fairy tale.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then show me,” he points to his tin mug balanced on a fallen tree across from them. “Bring me that cup with your special Jedi mind powers.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “The Force is not a party trick.”

“Because you can’t do it,” Stark declares triumphantly.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

“Can’t. Do. It.”

“Believe what you want.”

They sit in silence yet again until Steve feels it, another sharp jab to his side.

_That’s it!_

With a roar, Steve grabs the retreating stick, snapping it in half before he tackles Stark to the ground. Stark uses his momentum to flip him over, but Steve knees him then rolls him off. However, before Steve can pummel the Mandalorian, Stark is on him yet again. They tussle across the forest floor until Stark uses his superior weight to pin Steve to the ground, his knees pressing into Steve’s thighs with his legs locking around his calves, his arms holding Steve’s own up over his head and his helmet inches from Steve’s face. Steve can see his reflection, angry as he struggles. His breath is ragged and rapid as it gently fogs up the shiny metal. And then he feels it. A growing hardness in Stark’s groin pressed flush against his own.

Out of fury or perhaps borne of a certain helpless vulnerability of being alone and pinned, Steve reflexively, desperately pushes out with his mind. Stark goes flying, slamming into a tree and bouncing off, landing unceremoniously on his back with a grunt of pain.

Flustered, Steve stands, barely sparing a glance at his groaning opponent. “I’m going to forage for more food.” He dusts off his robes. “Don’t follow me.”

* * *

When Steve returns hours later with some edible mushrooms, Stark had already snared and spit-roasted two small mammals over the fire. He rotates them to evenly crisp the skin as Steve takes a seat across from him. Steve fills up a pot with some water from his canteen and places it near the fire to boil. He’ll have his mushrooms while Stark eats whatever he’s cooking. Steve hopes he chokes on the creatures’ tiny bones. He hopes–

Stark stands, grabs a spit, then walks over to the other side, holding it out to Steve. When Steve doesn’t immediately accept, he buries the sharp end near his feet, returning to his side to dig into his remaining share.

Steve’s belly betrays him, grumbling at the sight of crispy meat as his nose samples the savory scent wafting towards him.

A man can’t eat pride.

And so he accepts the proverbial olive branch, his teeth piercing the creatures flesh, tearing it away as chews. Stark turns his back on Steve then, lifting up the bottom of his helmet to enjoy his half of the meal unseen.

It’s times like these, when Stark is faced away to partially remove his helmet, that Steve remembers the Mandalorian is a living being of flesh and blood, instead of beskar and circuitry.

Steve wonders, and not for the first time, what is underneath that helmet. Stark sounds young (or at least not particularly old) and his body though armored is of a pleasing shape. He finds himself contemplating the color of Stark’s eyes, his hair, whether his nose is thin or broad and his chin sharp or rounded. Is he ugly under the helmet? Is that why he doesn’t find it so terrible to be hidden away as such? Steve has a hard time believing the man suffers from low self-esteem.

It doesn’t matter either way, but with nothing better to do before Stark’s friend Rhodey picks them up, Steve finds himself curious about his companion.

It’s a passing fancy of course. In a matter of days, they’ll be on the ship heading towards Tython. Steve will reunite with the survivors (including Bucky, if he’s lucky), and they’ll make a plan to proceed from there.

Then, he will forget all about the Mandalorian.

* * *

Disaster strikes two days later.

They had been disposing of their food waste a short distance from Stark’s ship, but that proves short-sighted when the refuse attracts a pride of saber cats. Steve had run towards a shout that quickly morphed into screams until he came across Stark pinned by an eight-legged creature. Two already lay dead while two others pounced onto his flailing limbs, trying to use their teeth to get around the beskar and leather.

Steve draws his lightsaber, and tosses off the first saber cat with a forceful wave of his hand. That draws the attention of the remaining two, who growl at the intruder, unwilling to relinquish their prey.

Steve slices through the air, the blade emitting a characteristic whine that appears to disturb the saber cats. “Back!” He orders as he advances towards Stark’s form lying prone on the ground. “Get back!”

The saber cats hiss, but are wary of approaching the Jedi and so they retreat into the tree line. Steve feels for their presence, not dropping his guard until they are gone. He drops to his knees beside the fallen Mandalorian.

Stark gurgles as blood falls from his neck at the seam of the helmet, a line of flesh that had previously been protected by now-shredded thick leather.

“I need to take off your helmet,” Steve says, reaching to lift it so he can see the extent of the damage. Perhaps he can even repair–

Stark’s hands, shaky as they are, are surprisingly strong on Steve’s wrists. He’s shaking his head. Steve knows what it means. Stark doesn’t want to remove the helmet, doesn’t want to break his vow, but his life depends on Steve gaining access to the wound.

“You’ll die if I don’t,” he tries to reason. First Master Erskine, then Master Phillips, and now Stark himself? Steve can’t lose another person. He can’t. “I can help you.”

Stark is still shaking his head, his blood now flooding over his beskar chest plate and pooling on the ground behind.

Steve curses then pulls at the belt holding his robes together, quickly wrapping it around his eyes and securing it with a knot behind his head. “Better?”

It must be because Stark doesn’t resist when Steve reaches for the helmet, pulling it off. His hand darts out. He feels the short hairs along Stark’s chin, his jawline, following it back to the source of the blood, wet and warm under his fingers. Steve gathers the Force within him as he concentrates it into his fingers then gently outward, repairing the flesh below. Stark shutters, the muscles of his neck spasming under Steve’s fingertips until the flesh becomes smooth and unabraded.

Steve sits on his haunches, his shoulders slack. He hears rustling and the soft clatter of metal as Stark returns the helmet atop his head. Then there are gloves, the leather still saturated with blood, reaching past Steve’s ears to lightly tug at the knot behind his head. The belt slides down, and Steve sees his reflection in the helmet, so close to his face, the fog of his breath gently puffing and receding across the metal.

Stark sits back. “Thank you, Steve.”

“You’re welcome.” Steve collects himself and stands, offering the man a hand up. “Now maybe you could wash up a little. I don’t know what else will be attracted to the scent of blood.”

* * *

Stark is acting strange.

“What did you think about the parbit? You liked those, right? I was thinking of maybe pairing them with a kebab of those weird fruits you found.”

Well, nicer than usual. Perhaps this is just what Stark is like around a man who so recently saved his life. He makes more of an effort to obtain food to Steve’s preference, lets him sleep in an extra hour, and no longer pesters him about his Jedi ways (though perhaps that’s the least surprising development, all things considered). Their conversations are less confrontational as a whole, bordering on pleasant even.

Steve can’t stop thinking about Stark’s face.

Though he hadn’t seen a thing, blindfolded as he was, he had felt the curves and angles of his face. He knows Stark sports a trimmed beard or perhaps long stubble, and his skin had felt soft but still firm, with no deep wrinkles to speak of. Would there ever be an occasion where Stark will voluntarily remove his helmet in Steve’s presence? Let him see what’s beneath?

Probably not, considering he had been near-death and still he refused to remove it, not while Steve could still see him.

But that doesn’t stop Steve from wanting.

“Still can’t believe with a face like that, you’ve never been with anyone,” Stark is saying once again as reclines against a tree trunk, watching Steve practice his forms. “Never even been tempted, huh?”

Steve doesn’t break his stride, bringing his lightsaber down then around, fluidly turning to face Stark’s direction as he execute the next moves. “You don’t seem to have any trouble, and not one of your partners has ever seen your face. How one’s face looks hardly seems relevant.”

“I have charm,” Stark replies, ignoring Steve’s snort, “but I wouldn’t have to work half as hard if I looked like you.”

“For all I know, you do look like me, but no one will ever have the opportunity to see it.”

“Fair.”

There’s something bugging him, something Steve has been meaning to ask. “You say Mandalorians are not prohibited from having partners or families, right?” He disengages the lightsaber, having finished his katas. He looks over at Stark expectantly.

“That is correct. Largely, we create families by adopting foundlings and passing on our traditions, but we can have romantic liaisons if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Do you ever take off your helmet for your partner? Has _anyone_ ever seen you?”

“If a Mandalorian removes their helmet in front of another living being, we are no longer permitted to wear it. No one is permitted to see our faces,” Stark recites. “This is the Way.”

“Seems like it would be an impediment during… more intimate activities,” Steve comes over to sit on the fallen log across from Stark.

“You mean sex?”

“Doesn’t it get in the way?”

“My dick doesn’t have a helmet,” Stark states flatly.

Steve licks his lips. “What about kissing?”

“What _about_ kissing?” Stark leans forward. “You thinking about kissing me?” he asks, his voice low, almost sultry.

Steve swallows on nothing and stands up immediately. “I– I’m going to refill the canteens,” he says, before stalking off.

The conversation doesn’t end there. Now that Steve has revealed the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he was thinking a bit too hard about what Stark’s lips might taste like, Stark seems to have decided it gives him free license to flirt even more with the Jedi, to rile him up and try to inspire him to undermine his own sacred vows.

“It’s our last night here,” Stark informs Steve yet again. Rhodey is due in the morning to tow them back to town where he has already stocked up on everything Stark needs to repair his ship.

“I’ll be happy to get back to civilization. Maybe we can even get the laundry working on the ship,” Steve replies, itching at his robes, containing the musk and wet heat of several days. He had feared washing his clothing in the stream, afraid they’d never air dry in this humidity. Sweat was preferable to mildew after all. At least Rhodey is bringing an extra change of clothes. With Order 66 in place, Steve can’t go around wearing his robes anyway.

Stark hums. “That’s true, but I was thinking… well… can I be honest with you?”

“You haven’t been honest with me?” For a brief minute, Steve is afraid Stark is going to admit he was hired by the Republic, that he is actually going to have Steve arrested that very night, but he shakes off the notion as utterly ridiculous.

“I like you, and I think you like me, too,” he says suddenly, adding, “and I think we should – if you wanted, that is – I think we could, you know, see where that goes?”

He can’t possibly be suggesting what Steve thinks he’s suggesting, but just to make sure: “Meaning…”

“Sex,” Stark says, blunt as ever. “I would like to have sex with you, if you’re interested.”

Steve is struck mute. His first impulse is to say yes, but his second is to run far, far away.

It takes a minute for Steve’s tongue to unstick and start working. “…What?” If his pitch is a little high, Stark doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s just a suggestion.”

“You want to have sex with me?”

“…Yes?”

“You. Want to have sex. With me?” Steve repeats, parsing out the phrases. He understands each individually and even strung together, but the implications of that sentiment are immense, too big for him to get a handle on it.

“I thought it was rather obvious. You like me; I know you do,” Stark repeats patiently.

Steve does, and that’s the problem. He likes Stark. He had made his peace with that recently, and so he can admit it to himself, but that’s precisely why he cannot sleep with him. What if Steve is terrible at it? What if they’re terrible together? But a deeper fear is what if they’re not? What if Steve is allowed this one time, this one glimpse of happiness, and then he has to give it up? Attachments… they are forbidden for a Jedi. The fear of loss is a path to the dark side, and combined with Steve’s penchant for anger… he can’t do it. He can’t. It is a way to lose himself, and he will never, ever make it back.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Steve’s voice is morose, apologetic.

Stark seems to take the rejection in stride. “If you don’t want to–”

“I _can’t_ ,” he repeats. He wants Stark to understand. This isn’t about them; it’s him. Steve simply _can’t._

Stark is silent at that, and Steve thinks that maybe he gets it, a supposition that is confirmed when Stark inquires, “This isn’t about your Jedi vow to forswear all attachments, is it?”

“What if it is?”

“It’s just sex.”

“It wouldn’t be just sex to me.”

And there it is, the truth splayed out, naked for both of them to see.

“You’re right. It wouldn’t be,” Stark admits. “I thought that maybe… maybe if we could, then you’d see how good we can be together, and I’d get to keep you.”

 _Attachment – the desire to hold onto something – can lead you to take more extreme measures to keep it,_ Master Phillips’s voice whispers from the back of Steve’s mind.

“It is forbidden,” Steve says.

Stark’s fists ball up. He stands, walking around the fire to confront Steve. “You speak of attachment as if it’s something wrong, something dirty, but guess what, Steve? Attachment is _natural;_ it is impossible to avoid. Even your grumpy asshole of a master must have cared for you. He must have felt you were special because despite whatever bullshit vow he made to the Order or the Force or whatever, his attachment to you inspired him to reach out to me to ensure you lived through whatever hair-brained scheme he tried to pull off.”

Steve stands as well. “My master wasn’t a ‘grumpy asshole.’ He was kind and full of joy, and he always encouraged me to become the best Jedi he knew I could be.”

“Really?” Stark exclaims, throwing up his hands. “With that sour mug, color me shocked. I mean, he was clearly concerned to have hired a Mandalorian to protect you, but he didn’t have to be such an asshole about it. I gave him my best jokes, and the man never cracked a smile, not even once. Just stood there frowning, and asked ‘are you done, son?’” He plants a gloved finger in Steve’s chest. “I am a mercenary and well past my age of majority and never have I been referred to as a child, not even when I _was_ a child.”

Steve goes rigid, his confusion bleeding away to dawning horror. “He called you ‘son’?” _It couldn’t be._ “What… what did he look like? My master?”

Stark is on a roll. “You don’t know what your own master looked like?”

“Answer the question. What did he look like?”

He seems to consider it. “He was stern,” he replies, “Old and wrinkled, that kind of jowly you get when you’ve only ever frowned your whole life. He also had a giant stick up his ass. Not that surprising though. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; you clearly learned that from him.”

“Master Phillips?”

“Yeah, that was his name,” Stark sneers. “Who did you think I was describing?”

Steve falls back into his seat on the log.

“Steve?” Stark hesitates, suddenly concerned.

Steve buries his face in his hands and weeps.


	4. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Tony escape the planet’s surface but are pursued by the newly-declared Galactic Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I revised the note on Chapter 1, but in case you haven’t seen it, please take a look at Jayjayverse’s wonderful art piece that inspired this fic located here: 
> 
> https://jellybeanforest-a-go-go.tumblr.com/post/643335511747051520/art-contribution-for-the-marvel-rbb-2020-strange

Rhodey shows up early the next morning with a lift and a change of clothes to help Steve blend in.

“I don’t know, Tones. Even with the clothes, he’s not exactly inconspicuous,” he says when Steve exits the ship wearing the brightly colored pants and contrasting long shirt of the locals. Being on the outskirts of the Republic, this planet hadn’t experienced the explosion and thorough integration of migrants from other worlds that more-centrally located planets had, and someone as fair as Steve simply stuck out as an outsider, which to the locals usually meant a representative or ensign of the Republic. “He looks like a stormtrooper who lost his shell.”

“What if we add a hat?” Stark suggests.

“Will it cover his whole head?”

Steve tugs at his sleeve, a touch self-conscious to be dressed in such loud colors after a lifetime of wearing only neutrals. “I could stay on the ship,” he offers.

Rhodey concurs, “That could work,” before turning to Stark. “They’re also checking all outbound flights. You’re gonna need to find a place to hide him onboard in order to pass inspection. Otherwise that’s an armada of tie fighters on your ass.”

“There’s no place to stow him; he’s huge,” Stark complains.

“Hey!”

“You don’t think he can like… turn invisible, right?” Rhodey inquires. “Is that a thing Jedi can do?”

Stark is about to tell Rhodey he’s being ridiculous – Jedi aren’t magic – but he stops himself. Steve had very recently proven he could do a lot of things Stark had previously thought impossible. Both men turn slowly to stare at Steve, who simply huffs and crosses his arms.

“No, of course I can’t turn invisible.”

Rhodey shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”

“But I can convince them I’m not there,” Steve adds, “theoretically.”

“What do you mean ‘theoretically’?” Stark asks, his fingers curling into quotation marks.

“Jedi can employ this persuasion technique to compel others to do something or convince them of… of alternative realities,” Steve explains, “but I’ve never been very good at it and never with more than one person at a time.” That was the downside of always solving his problems with his fists, the gentle art of persuasion (or mind-fuckery as some of the other Initiates would call it) is almost completely lost on him.

Rhodey rubs his chin in consideration. “You think you could do it if your life depended on it?”

_Probably?_

“I could try.”

* * *

Luckily, Rhodey runs a ship repair yard, and Stark’s ship, stripped as it is, passes as exactly the type of clunker he normally collects for spare parts. They enter virtually undetected, allowing Stark to get to work making his ship space-worthy once again.

Steve helps where he can, mostly smaller projects on the interior that have nothing to do with essential systems for survival or basic functionality. It would be a shame to exit the atmosphere only to find out that their radiation shielding is insufficient or that he had inadvertently punched a hole in the hull allowing air to escape as signaled by a deadly, high-pitched whistle.

“I’ll fix up the engine, and you…” Stark sorts through the pile of debris Rhodey had collected for him using the list he had transmitted the week prior. He pulls out a twin pair of rounded flat-bottom plastic, flipping it right side up. “You can add on the cupholders.”

“…Really?”

“You can never have enough cup holders.” He hands him a stack of a dozen. “Go nuts.”

Stark is finishing bolting on the new external shielding when Rhodey arrives, looking somber and a touch troubled.

“Why the long face, honeybear? Someone stiff you on a job?” Stark calls out as he unclips and lowers himself from the safety harness to greet his friend. “No really, you look like your favorite hound just died.”

Steve exits the ship to join them. He’s already secured all the cup holders two to a seat in the cockpit while adding additional ones to Stark’s central workstation table and the cargo area. He doesn’t know why Stark would need cupholders in the cargo area, but he figures better to have them and not need them than the reverse. Besides, after he had installed them in all the obvious places, there were still plenty left, and he felt he needed to put them somewhere.

Rhodey turns to Steve. “Can you hold his blasters for five minutes?”

Stark’s hands reflexively go to his holster, holding his blasters in place. “Why are you asking me to surrender my weapons?” he asks, suddenly serious.

“Just humor me a bit, okay Tones?”

Stark harrumphs, but he assents to his friend’s wishes, passing both to Steve. “Alright. I’m unarmed. Lay it on me.”

“Supreme Chancellor Palpatine has just declared himself Emperor and dissolved the Republic to form the Galactic Empire under his rule,” Rhodey reports.

 _That can’t be right,_ Steve thinks. The Republic is thousands of years old. How could a single man, the leader of its governing body, undo generations of tradition in one declaration? Is this what Master Phillips and the Jedi High Council had sought to prevent? Was this the hill they chose to die on? The line in the sand they tried and ultimately failed to defend?

 _We lost, and they’re trying to take us all out!_ Master Phillips had said.

How did it come to this?

For his part, Stark takes a deep breath, but he holds steady, as if steeling himself for the next blow he knows must be coming.

“The Empire has taken Mandalore.”

Stark doesn’t clamor for his weapons; he doesn’t try to climb the line of Steve’s body to get to them while Steve desperately tries to hold him off. Instead, he simply says “Oh” and heads into his ship.

“That went better than expected,” Rhodey tells Steve, his shoulders relaxing.

There’s a crash from within, followed by shouts and curses, metal objects clattering and banging. Rhodey flinches; Steve holds tighter to the man’s blasters.

When Stark emerges ten minutes later, he hands a twisted, cracked cup holder to Steve. “We might need more of these,” he says before stalking off towards a junk heap in the distance.

“I can get you more,” Rhodey offers.

Steve hands Stark’s weapons to the man and then follows after the Mandalorian.

“Stark–”

“Not right now, Steve.” The Mandalorian is tearing through an engine of a junker ship, but it is unclear whether he is looking for something specific or if he just wants to destroy something.

Probably the latter.

“I understand you’re upset–” Steve begins.

“You understand nothing.”

Like Steve hadn’t lost the people who raised him, likely many if not all of his friends, and his entire future in a matter of days. Steve is momentarily at a loss for words.

Stark seems to reconsider his statement. “I didn’t mean that,” he says, “I know you’ve lost, you’ve suffered, and grief isn’t a contest.” He momentarily pauses, withdrawing from the bowels of the ruined ship to turn and lean against its hull, sliding down to the dust. “It’s just… we made mistakes, but we had just gotten it back. Mandalore, that is. The rebels won with the Republic’s backing, and now that same Republic has betrayed us.”

“It sounds like Supreme Chancellor Palpatine did that.”

“You really think one man is that powerful?” Stark scoffs, his head turned away. “The Jedi tried, but the Senate… they could have stopped him and instead they chose to stand aside.”

Steve considers Stark. Though he can’t see his expression, he knows the man better than to think he’d let it lie. “What are you planning to do?”

“First, I am going to repair my ship,” Stark replies, returning to the engine to hunt for more replacement parts. “Second, I’m going to return you to Tython as agreed.” He pulls out a piece, handing it to Steve. “And then… well, I’ll figure out something.”

Steve seems to mull over his answer. “You could join us.”

“You don’t even know how many Jedi are left,” Stark points out. “If you lot are smart, you’ll scatter. Disappear. It’s a large galaxy; you won’t be noticed or missed.”

“You could do the same.”

“You think I’m going to sit back and let them get away with this?”

“You think _I’m_ going to let them get away with this?”

It seems they are at an impasse.

Stark hands him another part. “We’re still going to Tython. What each man does from there is no one’s business but his own.”

“Stark–”

“What?”

There’s nothing Steve can say that will make him change his mind, so he only looks down at the growing pile in his arms. “It’s nothing.”

Stark returns to scavenging.

* * *

In all, it takes Stark two days to fix his ship. He had even cleared out a storage hatch in the floor underneath his workbench, lashing the contents down in the cargo hold. It’s a tight fit but just enough to hold Steve until they can get airborne.

“You don’t think they’ll check?” Steve asks. Stark’s ship is newer, and it’s possible their inspectors won’t be familiar with the various features available in this model – the storage hatch might even be a custom alteration – but then again, the scavengers who stripped his ship had found it just fine.

It is certainly a risk.

Stark checks his knots in the cargo hold. “As a general rule, bureaucrats aren’t competent, especially the ones sent to the sticks,” he says, dismissing Steve’s concern.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Master Phillips and I were assigned to this outpost.”

“Uh huh.” He pulls the rope tighter. “Was that by decree or by choice?”

Steve had remembered the day Master Phillips had told him they would be sent away from Coruscant, the very center of the Core Worlds. He had thought he was being punished for what he had done to Master Erskine’s assassin, with his new master possibly being collateral damage or even acting as his voluntary jailer.

 _It’s not a punishment,_ Master Phillips had assured him. _Even the planets on the outer rim require the protection of the Jedi. Not everything is about you._

But considering what Steve knows now… maybe it had been about him, but perhaps instead of the punishment he thought it was, Master Phillips had taken him off-world to protect him.

“I do not know,” Steve admits, and there lies the rub.

Stark grunts as he finishes securing his cargo. “At any rate, we don’t have a choice unless you’re confident you can convince them you’re not actually here with your Jedi mind tricks.”

* * *

It is their last night before taking off for Tython, before they either bid each other farewell forever or die trying to escape the planet’s surface.

In the aftermath of Stark’s revelation days before, Steve had spent quite a while thinking about the Jedi and their aversion to attachment. He always knew where he stood with Master Erskine. Though his original master had espoused many of the same beliefs as the instructors at the Academy, Steve knew the man cared about him all the same, but then again, Master Erskine cared about everyone. His attachment to Steve hadn’t been particularly specific or special. The man had compassion for all beings and cared for them equally as is appropriate for a Jedi.

Master Phillips, on the other hand… Master Phillips had been unexpected. He had spent years trying to metaphorically beat the attachment out of Steve only to have taken extraordinary measures to ensure his survival, beyond what he had done for anyone else. Perhaps it had been a favor to his departed friend or maybe it was because Steve was his padawan and he had felt a certain responsibility for him.

Or maybe, just maybe, Master Phillips had cared about Steve specifically despite his vows.

 _When you can put aside your anger and truly forswear all mortal attachments, when you can let go of everything you fear to lose… only then will you be ready,_ Master Phillips had told him in their very last conversation.

_Is that what you did before you became a Knight?_

_It is the way of the Jedi,_ he had replied.

It hadn’t been a “yes.”

Was his master less of a Jedi because of his attachment to Steve? Master Phillips probably thought so, but Steve is not so sure.

He’s not sure about a lot of things these days.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Stark states while faced away and helmet partially lifted, his spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl of stew.

But he is fairly certain of one thing.

Steve puts his own dinner aside. “I’ve been thinking… we could die tomorrow,” he says. He’s not quite looking at Stark, instead staring at his hands, the blush already creeping up and burning the nape of his neck.

“That is a distinct possibility,” Stark allows, swallowing down another bite of stew.

Steve chews his bottom lip. “Well, if one or both of us die tomorrow, I don’t want to be left wondering what it would have been like.”

Stark abruptly drops his helmet and turns around. Steve has his full attention now. He can feel Stark’s eyes boring into him even if he can’t see his face.

“What what would have been like?”

Slowly, tentatively, Steve reaches over to place a hand on Stark’s knee. “Is that offer from the other night still available?”

Stark breathes in deep. “Depends. Are you going to regret it if we don’t die tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

* * *

When Steve was in the Academy, some of the boys and girls and beings that were both or neither would sneak off into a cave or behind the showers or (as legend would have it) in the headmaster’s quarters during the day to make out. The janitorial closet in Corridor 4B in particular had been quite the spot for the younglings who were just coming of age to experiment before they graduated and went on their separate ways.

Bucky had been popular, kissing all manner of fellow younglings, but Steve had not been nearly as successful despite his friend’s best efforts. He hadn’t had his first kiss by the time he passed the Initiate Trials and that streak continued through his apprenticeship under Master Erskine. Having been singularly focused on becoming a knight, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time, but as he watches Stark strip off his beskar chest plate and shin guards but leave his helmet, Steve wishes he could have maybe kissed a being or two before this point.

It is never going to happen for him now.

“What’s wrong?” Stark inquires, having paused in removing his leather under-armor when he realized Steve hadn’t so much as taken off his tunic. “Are you having second thoughts?”

It’s silly. He’s about to have _sex_. So what if he doesn’t get a kiss as well? That’s like eating a full meal and complaining about missing the amuse-bouche. “It’s nothing.”

Stark sits beside him on the cot in his sleeping quarters. “We don’t have to do this if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t,” Steve insists. “I want to do this.”

“But…”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

Steve knows he’s being selfish. He is well aware of the Mandalorian code. He knows the helmet stays on no matter what, but: “Can– can I kiss you?” he asks softly, a touch hesitant. Stark goes rigid beside him. “It’s just… I’ve never – that is to say, I haven’t… um. Well–”

“You’ve never been kissed?”

“…Yes?” He feels clumsy then, voicing his desires. It’s just a kiss, barely anything in the grand scheme of things. It is nothing and yet simultaneously a potential deal-breaker for Stark.

Steve just wants what he can’t have, and one day (if not today), it will be the ruin of everything.

Stark tugs at the cloth belt at Steve’s waist until it becomes loose in his hand.

“Stark?”

“Still want that kiss?” he murmurs as he folds it over Steve’s eyes.

“Yes.”

Stark secures the strip behind Steve’s head with a knot.

Steve hears Stark remove his helmet and place it carefully atop his other armor with a tell-tale clink followed by rustling that must be the rest of his clothes because by the time his hands are on Steve, spreading open his shirt to slip over his chest, and Steve touches him back, all he feels is bare skin. Then there are lips closing on his own, parting them sweetly to allow a foreign tongue to slide over his inexpert one, trying to coax him into an age-old dance. Steve feels clumsy, lumbering by comparison, but Stark doesn’t seem to care, deepening the kiss further as he gently rubs then tweaks an exposed nipple, making Steve gasp. Steve tries to copy the motion on Stark, but Stark pulls away as if burned, his hands on Steve’s wrists, preventing any further exploration.

It’s too late; Steve has already felt the anomaly.

“Does it still hurt?” he whispers. He knows what he felt, the edges of rather extensive scarring spiderwebbing from the center of Stark’s chest. They feel old, puffed in some places, stiff and tight in others.

Stark plants Steve’s hands on his hips, limiting them to the relative safety of his waist.

“Not for a long time.”

Steve wants to ask, but the memory is clearly painful for Stark, and tonight is about pleasure. There will be time for questions later when they survive the morrow.

 _If_ they survive.

“Kiss me again,” Steve murmurs, his lips nibbling at Stark’s jawline as the man lets out a shuttering breath. Their lips meet, sloppier this time, as one of Stark’s hands slides downwards to palm Steve’s growing erection.

In all, Stark is gentler than what Steve had expected of the Mandalorian. His touches are needy and spread like fire across Steve’s skin, hot and electrifying, but when he takes him from behind, he presses slow but firm into Steve, causing him to gasp, to nearly squirm at the foreign intrusion.

“Shhh…” he breathes, lips and tongue dancing along his tense back, his strong arms tightly locked over Steve’s chest. “Let me take care of you. You trust me to take care of you, don’t you?”

Steve had moaned when Stark’s fingers closed around his own erection, sliding his pre-cum down his length. He thrusts futilely, trapped between Stark’s hand and his cock.

“That’s it, honey. You’re doing so well. So good for me, Steve.”

And maybe it’s the praise or the breathy quality in Stark’s voice or the fact that Steve’s never done this before, never felt so good, but when Stark reaches up to manually turn Steve’s head to capture his lips, Steve comes with a groan, his body slipping down as he shudders and nearly flops down, lax and sated. He barely even registers the way Stark comes shortly after in a burst of wetness spilling over his thighs, but he does notice when the mattress dips as the man slips off.

Steve blindly reaches out, managing to grab Stark’s retreating forearm on the second try. “Stay,” he says, his voice scratchy and sleep-soft.

“It’s a tight fit,” Stark points out. Plus, the blindfold is not exactly comfortable to sleep in.

But Steve insists, “Stay.”

“Alright.”

He slides in closest to the hull, lying on his side faced away while Stark slips in behind him, an arm thrown low over his middle. There are lips on the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses upon the skin there, as Steve drops into a deep, satisfying slumber.

* * *

When Steve wakes in the morning, the man at his back is gone. He turns, his hands searching the bed beside him all the way to the edge to ensure Stark’s absence before he undoes his blindfold. He blinks against the harsh morning light until his vision adjusts, and he locates his clothes folded neatly on a nearby alcove.

And so, by the time he has dressed and stretched a bit to work out his sore muscles, he exits the ship’s sleeping quarters to find Stark, who is already situated in the common area of the ship discussing something with Rhodey in hushed tones.

Rhodey takes one look at Steve and rolls his eyes. “Really, Tones? Not him too,” he huffs.

Steve freezes.

_Is it that obvious?_

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Stark states evenly.

“You don’t have to. Loverboy over there is practically glowing.”

“Right.” He starts packing up the items on the table, preparing them for take-off and passing a stack of Outer Rim coins popular in this sector to Rhodey in payment for his services. “So it’s been a pleasure, honeybear, but uh… we should be going. Duty calls and all that.” He gives him a small salute. “Until next time.”

“There best be a next time,” Rhodey grumbles, adding the coin to his pouch.

And with that, Stark crouches down to lift up the hatch. “Your carriage awaits,” he tells Steve with a flourish.

Even empty, it’s a tight fit, but Steve only needs to stay put until they’re space-side. Still, it’s not exactly comfortable. When he tucks himself inside, the walls prove tight, and there’s something jutting into his hip. He’s about to say something about it, when Stark tells places a gloved finger over Steve’s lips.

“Hush now,” he says gently, his touch lingering a hair longer than necessary before he withdraws and closes the hatch.

Steve can’t see anything, barely has room to so much as breathe, but he hears Stark and Rhodey push the table atop the hatch, metal screeching across metal followed by the sounds of the ship firing up and taxiing slowly to the nearest port. They must reach its destination in customs because the ship pauses once again, though he can still hear the faint hum of engines on standby from within his claustrophobic coffin.

Then there are footsteps. Two – no, three – new sets of boots stomping across the floor.

“Bright suns, gentleman,” he hears Stark greet what has to be stormtroopers now aboard. “You’ve certainly beefed up security since last I was here. Before, I just had to fill out a declaration form for any flora or fauna I had acquired on my travels, and then I would be off… after paying a small fee, of course.” There’s a subtle clink of coin. A bribe.

“I’m afraid that will not work today, Mandalorian,” a gruff voice replies. “We are looking for a fugitive, one who cannot be allowed to leave the surface.”

Steve breath shallows, his hand inching towards the lightsaber at his side.

Stark’s interest sounds piqued. “A fugitive?” he repeats. “I would ask if you are on the market for some professional help, but I suppose you have already contracted a bounty hunter…”

“We are not permitted to discuss the details.”

“Of course not.”

There’s another pause before one of the stormtroopers observes, “The belly of this ship appears to be a much greater depth from the outside.”

To his credit, Stark doesn’t sound nervous as he replies, “What can I say? I’ve built a lot into the old girl for speed. Part of the job.”

There’s more shuffling then a screech of metal followed by a flurry of boots.

“Careful,” Stark admonishes them as the sounds come to a stop. “These devices are delicate, and I cannot have you throwing them about.”

“Move,” says one of the stormtroopers. “Or we will move you.”

Stark must step aside at the not-so-subtle threat because the table moves once again. Steve’s hand fumbles for his lightsaber, but it falls into the space between his hip and the hull, settling somewhere underneath him where he cannot reach.

Just then, the hatch opens to reveal a stormtrooper. Steve sits up abruptly, staring directly into the eyes of the white stormtrooper helmet. “You will walk away and clear this ship for launch,” he says, his voice steady, firm.

“…What?” the clone sounds almost confused at the Jedi’s brazen approach.

“You will walk away and clear this ship for launch,” he repeats.

“Arrest them,” The stormtrooper behind Steve commands, having wearied of his antics.

This isn’t working.

Steve tears a cupholder from the dislodged table – it comes off cleanly, having not been bolted on very well or competently – and jams it into the seam between the man’s helmet and chest plate for an effective throat punch. He then springs onto his haunches, grabs his lightsaber from below, and slices it across the stormtrooper as Stark blasts another and then the third near the door.

“What was that?” Stark shouts accusingly.

Steve is defensive as he protests, “I told you I wasn’t good at it.” He pushes aside the slumped body, hurrying for the door panel to close and seal it.

Stark is already booking it towards the cockpit. “We have to leave. Now.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

Steve hears a ruckus outside as Stark fires up the engines and launches his craft at a steep incline. Unsecured, Steve nearly rolls into the cargo hold, grabbing onto an errant strap along the side to keep from falling entirely, the table slides across the floor and would have taken him out if not for the body of the dead stormtrooper wedged between them.

He hears cursing from the cockpit, then a shout: “You okay back there, Steve?”

“Just get us out of here!”

Five harrowing minutes later when they have finally leveled off, Steve climbs over the bodies, the table along with various detritus Stark had previously stacked upon it. He eventually makes it to the cockpit where he falls into the copilot seat and straps himself in. He breathes heavily, his adrenaline still running high but with the edge just beginning to subside. “So…” he begins, “That went well.”

“It’s not over yet,” Stark says, peering down at his radar where multiple dots are converging on their location. “There are tie fighters on our tail. Six of them. Hold on!” He jerks the control stick to the right, causing the craft to pitch and roll as a series of blaster fire passes under them.

Steve is disoriented, being tossed within his harness as Stark deftly navigates between and around the fighters, firing off return blasts. They’re much smaller, more agile than his craft, but Tony has experience under his belt, and he’s able to take out three before long.

He curses when two of his gunners are taken out in the effort, leaving him with one remaining and three opponents.

“I don’t know how we’re getting out of this one,” he admits to Steve, even as he employs evasive maneuvers, trying to conserve his last operational gunner.

But Steve is already concentrating on a solution, his fingers glancing the end of the screen as he closes his eyes and feels the faint life energy of the remaining tie fighters, their positioning, the fuel and fluids running through their ships, their… it’s not exactly anger but a form of emotional detachment mixed with the thrill of the chase. Steve feels it, feels them. Two are close together now, closing in on their location. He reaches out of his mind, takes a hold of them both and gives them a sharp tug towards the center. What follows is a flare up of heat and fire, the threads of his influence growing taut then suddenly slack.

“What the…?” Stark looks up at the explosion blooming, barreling down one them as he takes a hard dip to avoid the blast zone before quickly taking out the last tie fighter and beating a hasty escape.

When they’re safely in hyperdrive, he swivels his chair to face Steve. “Did you… what did you do back there?”

“I used the Force,” Steve replies simply, finally removing the seat harness so he can breathe easy again.

Stark sighs, sits back and starts to chuckle. “Okay, fine. The Force. At least we’re not dead.”

Later, after he has cleared out his hold, secured his belongings in the hatch and lashed everything else down, the Mandalorian settles in next to Steve, who sits along the edge of the common room.

“So…” he begins.

Steve looks over at him. “So?”

“Next stop is Tython. Are you ready to rejoin your Jedi friends?”

 _Have you reconsidered?_ is the unspoken question.

Steve wets his lips. “Do you believe… well, do you think there are survivors like me?” It’s something that had been plaguing him for days. He’d felt their deaths, thousands of Jedi disappearing abruptly across the Galaxy, the void they left behind peppering across the known worlds, like miniature black holes of conspicuous nothingness littering the star-ways. Steve had survived, but only because he happened to be in the outer rim – only because Master Phillips did everything he could to ensure his survival – and even then, it had been a near thing.

Stark looks at him, pensive, his head tilted in thought. “For someone who believes in the Force, you should have a little faith in your fellow man,” he finally says. “But let’s say there are no Jedi left. You show up on Tython, and no one else is there, and there is no way to contact anyone that remains…” His fingers tap a rhythm across his knees as he weighs his next words. “Have you considered… that is to say… you could always ditch the Jedi robes and hide out with me,” he offers before quickly adding, “at least until Order 66 has been rescinded.”

Steve scrunches his nose. “I’m too old to be a foundling,” he states rather pointedly.

“I don’t want to be your father,” Stark clarifies, clearly disturbed at the very idea, “but I could use a partner, someone to watch my back from time to time, and your Jedi tricks have proved pretty useful so far, so…”

“Would you make me my own set of beskar armor?”

“What? No way,” Stark blusters, balking at the very idea. “Only a Mandalorian can–”

“Relax,” Steve says, leaning back against the hull. “I’m only messing with you.” He knows only a Mandalorian has the right to bear their signature beskar armor.

“I could come up with something else,” Stark offers instead with growing excitement. “Perhaps a cloth made of interlocking metal scales for ease of movement and protection.” Steve can already see the wheels turning in the Mandalorian’s mind as he imagines it. “Maybe something a little form-fitting so it won’t get caught on anything.” All the better to show off his ass. “You’ll like it.”

Steve lifts a brow. “This only happens if we cannot find a Jedi enclave on Tython,” he reminds him.

Stark’s shoulders slump. “Yeah.”

It’s not a certainty, he is well aware. Presently, they are hurtling towards Tython, towards possible allies and an uncertain future. They could use what time they have left mourning what could have been, worried about what is to come and what will be, or–

Or…

Steve places a hand on his knee. “That’s still two days away, isn’t it?” He slides up his thigh, looking over at Stark’s impassive helmet and trying to imagine the expression of the man underneath.

Stark clears his throat. “Two days is a lot of time,” he replies, his voice dropping low.

“Hm. How do you suppose we should spend the interim?”

“I can think of one or two activities.” He pulls lightly at Steve’s belt. “Only to pass the time of course, if you’re game.”

There will be a time for regrets later, after the last touch, the very last kiss, but for now, they can savor it all, wrapped up in each other.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am tentatively adding this fic to a series.


End file.
